<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>pay your debts by Magali_Dragon</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806153">pay your debts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon'>Magali_Dragon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Dark Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, but not really because they're in the process of getting divorced, sex in a bar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:22:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806153</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Daenerys Targaryen really hates her soon-to-be-ex-husband for a variety of reasons; one night at a bar before a business deal, she encounters a dark, smooth, gray-eyed stranger.  But is he really a stranger?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>517</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>pay your debts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this in one go tonight and I blame a variety of things.  I don't like odd numbers, so I had to do fic #82 just in case I don't get another idea between finishing the current ones I have and taking my break.  </p><p>Perhaps it's also <b>aliciutza</b>'s fault for spamming me with all the Beth/Rio from "Good Girls" and I LOVE those two because I'm always a sucker for a criminal/reluctant criminal romance.</p><p>And I will ALWAYS blame <b>NorthernLights37</b> because she makes me do these things.</p><p>And you know, sometimes we just need some Jonerys smut.  So here you go-- no plot, just smut.</p><p>Enjoy :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Daenerys was fairly certain she had never been in love with her husband. Not really. She guessed if that’s what you could call it, it might be akin to Stockholm Syndrome. Your brain developed a psychological alliance with your captor’s, as a coping mechanism to keep from truly shutting down, from snapping and turning catatonic. That must have been what it was. She was young, stupid, and trapped in a loveless situation, manipulated by the far larger man who had decided to make her <em>his</em>. She had no agency over herself, no self-esteem, no real <em>anything</em>.</p><p> </p><p>And now look at her, she thought, eyes narrowed on the great brute of a man who was sniffing the vodka in his crystal tumbler like it might have been poison. The suit he wore was too tight on his muscles, the traditional Dothraki tattoos on his forearms creeping out from his starched shirt cuffs. She hated the color combination he’d chosen for the evening, a weird teal blue tie and shirt with the black of his jacket. It clashed terrible with his caramel-colored skin and his dark eyes and hair. She <em>hated</em> it.</p><p> </p><p>She hated <em>him</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Drogo glared at the vodka, making a face. “Not bad,” he judged, his Common Tongue harsh, and he slipped into Dothraki with her, shooting a look across the table. “Where’d you find this place?”</p><p> </p><p>The bar they’d ended up in after meeting at the attorneys’ offices was not the sort of place one might find one of King’s Landings most prominent businessmen. Formerly prominent businessmen. A businessman who pretended he had cash to burn and influence to peddle, when it was really his tiny, lowly little wife who was supporting and saving his great lazy arse.</p><p> </p><p>“A friend,” she answered, not bothering to raise her voice over the sound of the music. It was not the sort of place Drogo would be seen these days, pretending he was respectable and all. Maybe back when he had been in a biker gang, when he’d started off and she’d initially thrown herself into his world, in an effort to regain her family’s name and hope maybe she could be someone one day.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, she’d become someone, certainly.</p><p> </p><p>Her legs were crossed under the hightop, her black skirt cut high on her slim thigh. Drogo had not been pleased to see her arrive at the offices as she had been. He missed the quaint little pastel colored outfits she’d used to wear, the ones that toned down her beauty instead of accentuated it. When he used to think he could control her. His little <em>khaleesi.</em></p><p> </p><p>His little khaleesi died the day she came home and discovered he’d been carrying on a series of affairs for years, losing all their money, racking up debts with Essos’s most unsavory loan sharks and all the while expecting her to stay at home and pretend to be the little queen to his king. <em>Fuck that</em>, she’d decided, after she’d realized just what had become of her life.</p><p> </p><p>She scanned the bar, Drogo saying something about how maybe they should put a pause on the divorce proceedings. The only reason they were still bothering with this farce of a marriage was to keep up appearances. There were investors to schmooze and Tywin Lannister was old-fashioned like that. He didn’t really care to engage with men who couldn’t keep to something as important as marriage vows. What were the vows of business then, he’d always replied when people asked why he cared.</p><p> </p><p>Daenerys had learned plenty in the last year, since that fateful day her credit card had maxed out and she’d unearthed Drogo’s other life. She learned to stand up for herself. She learned she really didn’t love him, not really, and she learned that there were things bigger than just the tiny sphere she lived in, as the happy <em>khaleesi</em> to her <em>khal.</em> She had to give up her beloved black stallion Drogon—named stupidly for her husband who she believed she’d loved—to pay some of his debts. She suspected Drogon was the only creature she’d ever truly loved and Drogo made her get rid of him.</p><p> </p><p>She was going to kill him, she thought, cocking her head again. The earring he wore was disgusting; it was a crescent moon hanging in his ear, another above it a sun. They used to call each other that. Moon of my life. My sun and stars.</p><p> </p><p><em>Seven hells</em>, she thought, shaking her head a little.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t want another?”</p><p> </p><p>It took her a second to realize he’d asked her a question and her head shake in disgust he’d taken to mean she wanted another round. She shrugged, not caring. If she could get drunk tonight, that might make this pathetic attempt at civility worth it. Especially if Drogo was buying. She pushed her empty whiskey glass forward on the table for a waitress to scoop up; the woman winked at Drogo, who snapped his teeth at her, grinning. “Fucking hells, your wife is right here,” she snapped at him.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you didn’t want to be my wife anymore,” he retorted.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t. So why are we even here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Daenerys,” he began.</p><p> </p><p>She cut him off, not wanting to hear it. She slid off the stool, not dropping as far as she normally would have, as she was in a pair of six-inch stilettos. Drogo hadn’t understood why she’d started wearing them. She realized she liked them; she liked walking tall. Her little designer flats that matched her soft skirts and sweater sets were trash. She’d burned them when she unearthed her inner dragon.</p><p> </p><p><em>My dragon</em>, a voice purred in her ear, vowels soft and rolling. Her skin tingled, hair standing up on the back of her neck. She rolled her head on her neck, briefing closing her eyes and swallowed the dry patch forming in her throat. “Bathroom,” she said, snatching her purse.</p><p> </p><p>“When you come back we should talk about the house.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Burn the fucking house, I don’t care.</em> The lawyers were arguing over it. Hers said she had to at least pretend to care, after all Drogo had put her through, she couldn’t just roll over. She had to fight him, Tyrion Lannister told her. She agreed, if only to watch Drogo squirm when he began losing what little there was left in their pathetic marriage. She wanted her investment back, she’d told him, when she’d done what she had to do to get them out of the hole.</p><p> </p><p>When Drogo had used <em>her</em> inheritance for his shit. When Drogo had made her sell <em>her</em> beloved horse. When Drogo had traded in her name and what little clout it had to get himself out of trouble.</p><p> </p><p><em>Gods</em>, she thought, heels clicking on the stone floor. The bar was called “The Wall” and maintained a cold and harsh atmosphere, in keeping with the location at the farthest northern point of the Seven Provinces the actual Wall stretched. Cool blue light filters on every bit of illumination, stone and dark and glass and chrome. She edged by a group celebrating someone’s hen party and wanted to wish the young woman luck—she’d need it, even if she was marrying Prince Fucking Charming.</p><p> </p><p>Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone move off a barstool, finish off his drink, and set the empty glass down, all in a smooth, predator-like motion, a black blur as he stepped into the growing crowd of people milling throughout the bar. She felt eyes on her, burning into the back of her head. Casually, she pushed her silver braids over her shoulder, letting them swing across her shoulderblades, her black dress dipping low into the small of her back and exposing most of it to the stranger’s gaze.</p><p> </p><p>If it was the stranger, she thought, smirking to herself.</p><p> </p><p>She clicked to the bathroom, opening the door and stepping into the single occupant space. The door shut behind her, and her fingers brushed across the lock, but she did not twist it just yet. She turned to the sink, her purse placed beside the faucet. She lightly touched the silver clasp on the fine black leather; it was a gift. A gift from a <em>friend</em>. If that’s what you could call him.</p><p> </p><p>Her skin was hot; it always ran hot, but now it was downright stifling. She reached behind her and lifted her braids off the back of her neck, tugging them over her opposite shoulder, letting them fall over her breast. The dress she wore covered her front and looked almost demure, until you saw it from behind. Her bare legs rubbed together, thighs squeezing against the rising heat between them.</p><p> </p><p>In the mirror she saw a woman she did not recognize.</p><p> </p><p>This woman had dark eyeshadow and liner around her bright violet irises, which sparkled, like amethysts. Her long silver curls were tugged into a series of crisscrossing braids, some twisted into a crowd at the base of her head and the rest left to hang with other tendrils. Sometimes she contemplated chopping it all off. This woman had a small body, tight and compact, courtesy of her almost daily Pilates classes. Now it was because she did other things to stay in shape, things her old self would have gasped at doing. Her breasts weren’t that big, but they were still high and firm. Her legs were short, but in her stilettos they looked miles long. She had big hips and a bit of an arse, which she used to hide in her flowing skirts and now displayed in the poured-on dress.</p><p> </p><p>She lightly touched her fingertips to the side of her neck, where her pulse thudded, to a small mark fading just near where it met her shoulder. It looked like a set of teeth. Or maybe even a brand. She smirked, briefly seeing the moment she’d received it flash before her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>There were her hands, she observed, glancing down at them, at the slim fingers ending her red-painted nails. Her mother’s ring on her right index finger, as it always was. A thumb ring she’d just acquired. A couple more scattered on her other digits. The gigantic diamond and wedding band she’d sold, after first contemplating tossing it in the Blackwater Rush. The money she’d gotten from the sale she’d used to buy the bracelet around her wrist, three dragons eating each other’s tails, like an infinity symbol.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>”You are a dragon, so be a dragon.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I am a dragon,” she murmured, glancing down at her purse. She flicked it open and fumbled for her lipstick, to touch up. As she pushed the tube up and leaned forward over the sink, the doorknob twisted behind her. Her heart began to race, despite her futile attempts to steady it, to maintain her composure and keep at what she was doing. She pressed the lipstick to her upper lip, eyes locked on the reflection in the mirror.</p><p> </p><p>The door creaked open, barely, allowing the man to slide in behind her. He shut it and leaned back against it.</p><p> </p><p>She finished reapplying, capped the tube, and set it back in her purse. Her eyelashes, thick and dark, lifted slightly, perusing him through them. He looked good. <em>He always looks good.</em></p><p> </p><p>Tonight his dark curls were tamed back into a bun at the nape of his neck. A few tendrils escaped around the base of his neck. His beard was trim, clean, and his upper lip twitched, no doubt sensing her sweep of him. He wore a simple black button-down, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. It was tucked into tight black skinny jeans, a black belt and silver buckle, and black leather boots, no laces or zippers. She knew the toes of the boots were steel. A fact people learned the hard way, when he kicked them in the gut after he’d knocked them down with a clean punch of his fist.</p><p> </p><p>Those fists were loose at his sides. A silver watch his only adornment.</p><p> </p><p>Except for the tattoos.</p><p> </p><p>They crept along both of his arms, branches and swords twisting. A raven here and there. A moon curving behind red leaves. A crying face on the tree trunk. And wolves. <em>Wolves running, loping, snarling.</em></p><p> </p><p>At his neck, peeking out from under the loosely unbuttoned collar of his shirt, she saw the wolf snarling at her, red eyes shining like rubies against his pale skin. And his eyes, meeting hers in the mirror. Gray as storm clouds rolling in, but now black as the ink that traced along his skin.</p><p> </p><p>She finished what she was doing and turned.</p><p> </p><p>He stepped towards her, not making a sound.</p><p> </p><p>She stepped to him, her heels echoing in the stone, cold space. She reached around him; he was warm, emitting heat from his gaze, unblinking. His plump, pink lips pulled into a smirk, his teeth a flash of white on his dark beard, but he said nothing. Neither of them had to say a thing.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingers twisted the lock.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Click.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>And she turned again, revealing her back once more, leaning towards the sink, her fingers sliding down over her flat belly, flaring across her hips, and touching the edge of the counter. The cold marble stung her hot palms, slightly damp from nerves. She kept her breathing as even as she could, but the quickening of her chest rising and falling belied her nerves, her anticipation.</p><p> </p><p>Violet irises disappeared her eyes fluttering shut, the last sight in the mirror of him leaning over her, crowding her to the sink. She dug her fingers into the marble; his hands covered hers, sliding along the tops of hers, and gripping around them. After a moment, his lips brushed her temple, the barest hint of a kiss. Her mouth fell open, a gasp of surprise escaping her, and her lungs collapsed, breathing impossible when he began to trace his mouth over her racing pulse, kissing her jugular and down to the spot he’d left last time.</p><p> </p><p>His teeth set perfectly into the mark. A wolf’s bite.</p><p> </p><p>His hands slipped free of hers, reaching down to grip the material at her thigh, pushing it, inch by inch, torturously slow, up and over. At the same time, his other hand released hers and slipped between them.</p><p> </p><p>Dany tilted her head back, allowing his kisses to move closer to her mouth, up to the shell of her ear. His tongue traced the diamond hoops she wore, suckling at her earlobe for a moment, nipping it and continuing its journey to where she needed to taste him. She opened her eyes, briefly, to lock onto his gaze. He said nothing; his nostrils flared with his exhale of breath, steady and even, and then he finally covered her lips with his.</p><p> </p><p>And everything broke.</p><p> </p><p>The dam of need collapsed inside of them both, both snapping at each other, teeth clashing, tongues furiously jabbing into the other’s mouths, sloppy and angry. Her hands released from the counter, one joining his to pull down the front of her dress, her tits popping free and his touch on them rough, squeezing and pinching, filling his palm with their soft weight.</p><p> </p><p>Her other hand reached to grab the back of his neck, curling into the tie of his hair and locking tight, stretching, bowing backwards so she could keep kissing him. She groaned, frustrated, her cunt empty, desperate for him to fill her. The cold marble against her hot bare stomach when he pushed her forwards against it shocked her; she cried out into his mouth, thankful for it as he smothered her whimpers again, letting go of his ministrations on her nipples to grab for her jaw, forcing her mouth harder to his.</p><p> </p><p>She bucked against his other hand, which quickly worked his belt free, his cock thrusting hard against the cleft of her arse. She used her opposite hand to find it, to reach back and slip beyond the waistband of his jeans to discover him, hot and hard as iron, pumping her small fist along his long, thick length. He thrust up into her palm, grunting and forgetting himself a moment.</p><p> </p><p>When he lost himself, she made note of it; the only time he ever struggled with his control was with her. She took it as a point of pride.</p><p> </p><p>He let go of her jaw and her tits, pushing the rest of her dress over her hips, where it pooled on the floor at her feet, and skimmed both over her flat stomach, over her hips, and around to squeeze her arsecheeks before he dipped one over her cunt, palming at it, his fingers eagerly diving into the molten heat awaiting him, slippery and dripping. She began to breathe hard through her nose, trying to control her sounds, to not shout and scream like she wanted; control was important for her too.</p><p> </p><p>He dipped a finger into her, testing her readiness, and then a second, while his thumb tapped at her clit. How she wanted his tongue there, his sinful, snappish tongue, but she couldn’t, not now. Instead he used it to trace patterns on her shoulder, alternatively nipping and suckling.</p><p> </p><p>She let go of his neck, her arm aching from the awkward positions, and pushed her palm over his hand, riding his fingers, her hips swiveling so she could rub her clit harder against the heel of his hand, the coil inside of her tightening, needing to break. Except his fingers wouldn’t do. She had to have more.</p><p> </p><p>He reached between them again and slid his cock along the cleft of her arse before he dipped it to tease against her entrance, gathering up the wetness he found, smearing it over and around, while his fingers continued to fuck her. She used one hand to support herself on the sink again and the other to grab backwards at his hair again. The soft silk of his shirt rubbed against her back, the buttons digging against her. She needed his mouth again, but she had to have his cock more, thrusting hard backwards, impaling herself onto his length.</p><p> </p><p>He split her open, dragging against her soft, velvety walls, bottoming out before he pulled backwards again, only to push harder, knocking her against the sink. He grabbed her hip, yanking back, almost brutal, before he let go, grabbing around her braids, twisting them around his wrist, and jerking her head backwards to kiss him.</p><p> </p><p><em>Fuck you</em>, she briefly thought, smiling against his mouth. She bit hard on his lower lip, earning herself a hiss and then a satisfied groan as she squeezed around his cock, reminding him who was in control here.</p><p> </p><p>Didn’t <em>he</em> come find her?</p><p> </p><p>Didn’t <em>he</em> make the first move?</p><p> </p><p>And he knew it.</p><p> </p><p>He pulled tighter and pushed her back against him again, his hand still working her clit furiously while he fucked her. She bowed forwards and he fell with her, his balls slapping against her thighs, the sinful sounds of their coupling drowned out by the music thudding beyond the bathroom walls, the laughter and screams and shouts of the patrons. She laughed in between her gasping groans and his increasingly out-of-control grunts and cries.</p><p> </p><p>His jeans abraded the back of her thighs, the belt buckle slapping against her arse. She kept kissing him, until he tore away from her mouth to bite down hard on her shoulder, smothering his hoarse cries as he began to lose control, his hips already at a punishing pace, slamming into her over and over, becoming erratic. She squeezed hard around him, the coil snapping as he pushed on her clit, as with one final slam of his hips into hers, she came, a blinding white light flashing behind her eyelids.</p><p> </p><p>He gave a few more pumps inside of her before he came, twitching and exploding forth, her belly warming as he filled her, hot and heavy. He dropped his hand from her hip to cover hers on the counter, the other still trapped between her thighs. She hummed, satisfied. He leaned around her again, finding her lips, and kissed her.</p><p> </p><p>Unlike the others, this was gentler, softer. Less angry and demanding. He moaned soft, nose pressing to hers, and she allowed him entry, relaxing backwards against his hard body, molding perfectly.</p><p> </p><p>Her jaw dropped, opening her mouth further, tongues sweeping together in a brief dance. He broke first, kissed her a couple more times, and stepped back, reaching to dislodge his softening cock from her. He let go of her cunt and lifted his hand. With gray eyes fixed on her purple ones, he brought his fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to his index finger, circling like he’d done with the digit against her clit, and drew it into his mouth, licking it clean with a filthy ‘smack’ of his lips.</p><p> </p><p>Her lips parted, eyelashes fluttering, desire shooting like a flaming arrow through her again. Her thighs quivered, knees locked, and her toes curling tight in the toes of her heels. She didn’t know how she was still standing upright; she suspected without the heels she’d have fallen to the floor long ago.</p><p> </p><p>Fire tracked from the top of her head, where her braids had tugged from her scalp, to her kiss-stung lips, all the way down across the new bruise blooming at her shoulder to her manhandled tits, the sting of the fingermarks in her arsecheek and to her swollen, throbbing cunt. She closed her eyes again, swallowing back the dryness in her throat, and stood straighter. She squeezed her cunt tight again, but it didn’t matter, their commingling fluids already tracking down her inner thigh.</p><p> </p><p>The bathroom was once more eerily quiet. She cleared her throat, touching lightly at her chest, heart threatening to break out of her ribcage. Neither looked at each other, despite the mirror taking up most of the small space. The rasp of his zipper tucked him back in and he glanced down to pull his belt back through the buckle. She ran the faucet briefly, cleaning herself and tossing the wet towels into the trash with a soft ‘swish’ of the paper against the plastic liner.</p><p> </p><p>Dress shimmied into place, tucked up over her shoulders and her hair smoothed down again. She reached for her purse, took out her lipstick tube, and finally looked into the mirror, meeting his eyes again.</p><p> </p><p>They said nothing.</p><p> </p><p>He stepped backwards to the door, smirked, and nodded. “Be seeing you Daenerys.”</p><p> </p><p>Dany said nothing; she fixed her lipstick again and put it back into the purse, reaching and tugging her skirt into place again. She shifted, returning feeling into her numb feet, and turned around, opening the door.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingers were trembling.</p><p> </p><p><em>Steady</em>, she told herself. <em>Be a dragon.</em></p><p> </p><p>She took a deep breath, held it, and released between parted lips. The door flung backwards, smacking hard against the stone wall behind it and she left the bathroom, ignoring some of the curious looks of people milling around, no doubt having seen him leaving a moment ago. She didn’t care what they thought. She’d passed the point of caring about anything when she’d realized who she’d needed to become.</p><p> </p><p><em>What</em> she’d become.</p><p> </p><p>She marched to the table, Drogo removing his wallet to throw some cash for their drinks. “Did you fall in?” he joked.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes narrowed; <em>gods I really fucking hate him</em>. She drew herself up straight again, voice cool. “I’m not going to budge on the house. It’s more than fair that I continue to live in it, and you pay the mortgage and all the upkeep, seeing as you were the one who decided to put it up as collateral for a loan that I successfully paid off.”</p><p> </p><p>He glared at her; the joking look gone now. “What the fuck?” he hissed. “Here? You want to fight about this here?”</p><p> </p><p>“We could always fight about it with Ghost.”</p><p> </p><p>A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Fine,” he ground out. He stormed away from the table. She grinned, following after him. They returned to the car, the fancy sportscar he’d been allowed to continue driving because she had paid off the remainder of the loan, he’d taken on it as well.</p><p> </p><p>It was only the fact that she wanted back the money he’d outright stolen from her after they married, that he’d wasted away, that kept her sitting here with him still. That she wanted to clear her name. To show the world that she wasn’t ‘Khal’ Drogo’s little Valyrian wife with the family that used to be famous. She was going to get what he owed her and then some, and then she was going to take the divorce papers and have them fucking bronzed and hung in the foyer of her new mansion. The mansion she’d be able to buy when she got back what was owed to her.</p><p> </p><p>But first, they had to pay back what <em>he</em> owed.</p><p> </p><p>Courtesy of her machinations.</p><p> </p><p>They drove in silence; she knew he hated these meetings. He always liked to be the biggest, the strongest, and the toughest in the room. He was nothing when he met with the Wolf. A grievous oversight on his part, when he’d initially gone into business with him.</p><p> </p><p>She allowed the sweep of the metal detector wands when they arrived at the harbor, parking near a series of rusting shipping containers. They descended a series of gangways to the old fisherman’s pub, clearly standing out. She’d tugged on an expensive leather trenchcoat to ward off the chill from the Blackwater, the weather uncharacteristically cold this evening.</p><p> </p><p>In the ‘pub’ which didn’t do business to anyone save the Ghost and his entourages, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. It was dank, reminded her of the North, chill creeping into her bones. She hefted up the duffel bag on her shoulder, while Drogo finished with his security check. Out of the corner of her eye she spied the redheaded wildling girl using the tip of one of her arrows to pick under her nails, while she cracked gum and glared over at them, the dim light doing nothing for her yellowish pallor. Another stood behind the bar, honey-colored hair braided over her shoulder, blue eyes sharp, watchful. An older man sat at the table, half-moon glasses glinting each time he moved his pocketknife over a piece of wood he was whittling at aimlessly. Across from him, a gigantic man with bright red hair and beard was cleaning a gun that looked like a cannon.</p><p> </p><p>This was the one who greeted them first, grinning wide. “Dragon Queen,” he boomed.</p><p> </p><p>“She ain’t a queen Tormund,” the redhead sneered, hopping off the crates she’d been sitting on, walking over to thrust her flat chest up towards Daenerys. “She’s a fucking nothing, taking our money.”</p><p> </p><p>Daenerys twitched her lips, wanting nothing more than to smack the oversized front teeth of the pug-nose bitch out of her mouth, but refrained. It would not do good to get into fights with the people you owed.</p><p> </p><p>“Ygritte,” a cool voice called from the shadows. “Play nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fucking dragons,” Ygritte cursed, scowling once more and stalking off, glowering forlornly at the man who emerged from the back office. “Don’t know why we have to deal with them Crow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because they took our money and I would like it back.”</p><p> </p><p>Drogo grabbed the duffel from her, throwing it towards Tormund and the older man who finally looked up from his whittling. “It’s there, this month’s installment.”</p><p> </p><p>“Davos will be the judge of that.”</p><p> </p><p>The older man chuckled and got up, disappearing with the bag into the back office. Tormund got up and went to the bar with the other woman, beginning to make himself a drink. Drogo looked around warily. “We done?” he asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Soon enough.” The man turned his gray gaze on her, smiling politely. “Daenerys. Lovely as ever.”</p><p> </p><p>Dany titled her head towards him. “Jon,” she greeted, soft.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s Ghost to you,” Ygritte snapped.</p><p> </p><p>“Or Mr. Ghost,” Tormund piped up, laughing at his own joke.</p><p> </p><p>Jon chuckled, running his fingers over his dark hair, letting his hand drop down to his side. He glanced at her again, still smiling, amused. “How are you this evening?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” she replied.</p><p> </p><p>“You look flushed.”</p><p> </p><p>“The weather I suppose.”</p><p> </p><p>“Have you eaten? You should eat something.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m quite fine thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps sit down and ah…get off your feet.” He glanced at her heels, licking his lips. “Those look a little uncomfortable.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can stand fine, thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Drogo was nervous already, vibrating beside her. “You got your money this month, alright?” he snapped. He stepped towards him. “And stop making eyes at my wife, yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>She rolled her eyes, disgusted in him. She crossed her arms over her chest, while Jon only smiled at Drogo, who was now a little too close for comfort. It took one more step from Drogo, who opened his mouth to say something, and before she knew it, her massive soon-to-be ex-husband, who was about three times the size of the man in the black silk shirt and skinny jeans, was on the floor, clutching his throat, courtesy of the out-of-nowhere ghost-like movement, a hard cut straight up, almost crushing his trachea.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Keep moving Drogo, he’ll kick you with the steel-toed boot next.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jon fixed the cuff of his shirt, pulling it taut over the tattoo peeking underneath. “Stand up Drogo, get ahold of yourself, you’re embarrassing.” He glanced over to her, smirking. “No wonder you’re divorcing him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Among other reasons,” she murmured.</p><p> </p><p>Davos exited the back, giving a thumb’s up. “All here Jon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Excellent.” Jon smiled enigmatically, his eyes wandering to her again. “You’re free to go. See you in a month. Unless of course I have reason to see you before.” He helped Drogo off the floor, the other man still wheezing. He clapped him on the back, sighing. “You never should have stolen my money Drogo. Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe.” He dusted off Drogo’s shoulder, smiling again. “Or maybe horses, in this case.”</p><p> </p><p><em>The only thing that kills both</em>, she thought to herself, <em>were dragons.</em></p><p> </p><p>She turned to leave, Drogo rushing out ahead of her, before she heard him call out. “Daenerys, a word?”</p><p> </p><p>Drogo shook his head, hissing. “No, you’re coming with me. I’m not leaving my wife here.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can take care of myself,” she said, ignoring Drogo’s protests. She smirked. “And I’m not your wife, not anymore.” She turned away from him, following Jon from the main room and down a corridor, his feet silent. He took her up to the second floor, pushing open a door into a well-lit room, a large bed in the corner and a desk piled with guns, cash, and account books opposite it.  A snow white wolf popped his head up from where he'd been sleeping against the desk, tail thumping against the worn wood floor.  He blinked his red eyes, yowling hello.  </p><p> </p><p>He jerked his head towards the door.  "Ghost, out."</p><p> </p><p>The wolf jumped up, nails clicking as he trotted out, nosing her hand for a brief pet and sniff.  She smiled, idly brushing her fingers over his ears, walking into the room.  The door closed behind the wolf, and she turned at the sound, in time for him to grab her face with his hands, yanking her up to him. She moaned against him, arms sliding around his hips, pulling him to her.</p><p> </p><p>He nipped her bottom lip, growling. “Take off your clothes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck you,” she laughed. She snapped her teeth. “Ghost.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon Snow grinned, wolfish and mean, ripping the trenchcoat belt from around her waist. “This is a little better than the bathroom at my bar, is it not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” she advised, yanking him down to kiss her, fire consuming them both.</p><p> </p><p>No, she thought idly, as she lay in the bed, wrapped up in the arms of a man who was not her husband, who was a <em>criminal</em>, who lied and cheated and stole and killed—in the most honorable of ways he insisted—Daenerys was sure she’d never loved her husband. But she was sure she loved the one she was with, she thought, kissing the wolf tattoo over his sternum, just below his throat, and she was annoyed at the very notion of it.</p><p> </p><p>The comforting thing was, at least he felt the same.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>